


Of Infallibility and Ennui

by nornling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Hermione Granger, Grey Hermione Granger, Old Mind in Young Body, Rise to Power, Sociopath Hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 20:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12689682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nornling/pseuds/nornling
Summary: Tedium is the greatest enemy of an immortal. (Or, Hermione gets bored with a peacetime dimension and decides to shake things up.)





	Of Infallibility and Ennui

Hermione flexed her fingers and toes just to make sure she could, and she heaved a sigh of relief when they wiggled freely. Her clothes and belongings were exactly where they’d been on her body in the other dimension, though that body had been left behind. Theoretically it was also destroyed, though that was no longer her concern.

Now that her mobility had been confirmed, Hermione looked around in the near perfect blackness. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the lack of light, and she could make out the silhouettes of buckets, brooms, and shapes which she could only assume were spray bottles. She was in a broom closet in the Ministry of Magic, if something hadn’t gone very wrong. Hermione opened the door, her wand raised. There was no telling what sort of dimension she’d come to this time until she walked out into it.

Of course, the danger was minimal. Though the means to send herself through dimensions wasn’t nearly as customizable as she’d prefer, it only allowed one core divergence. There was no way to know in advance what that divergence would be, naturally, and it wasn’t limited by any time constraints. Normally the divergence had to do with either the existence or non-existence of a particular person, such as a world without Harry Potter, or a world with another dark lord at the same time as Tom Riddle reigned. 

Her first goal was to amass as many newspapers as she could get her hands on, which turned out to be quite a few. Dumbledore was just as much of an influence as ever, if not more, and he didn’t appear to have changed his views, which was excellent. Harry, however, never appeared in any newspapers except for a brief report of his birth to James and Lily Potter on July 31st, 1980. The reason for that became immediately, exhilaratingly apparent: Tom Riddle had never been born. 

She doubled-checked that with Hogwarts yearbooks and even Muggle records. Tom Riddle didn’t exist. Lord Voldemort didn’t exist. What luck! 

Since his existence had changed possibly the whole of the wizarding world, there were naturally many variances to contend with. There were children who never existed before, and several marriages had never gone through. Furthermore, the Ministry of Magic was choking with old blood.

Hermione Granger did, however, exist. She’d graduated from Gryffindor as Head Girl in 1998, lived in a small flat in Muggle Wiltshire, and worked a low-level job in the Ministry. 

Based on a thorough read-through of “her” diary and correspondence, the Hermione she’d replaced had been a vastly different person than the one this dimension was stuck with now. It was to be expected, as being a child soldier had shaped so much of her personality, but Hermione had no intentions of pretending. 

Ron and Harry didn’t really notice the change, largely because they weren’t actually her friends in this world. They’d all been Gryffindors, sure, but they only saw her as Ginny’s little friend and, later, the swotty Head Girl. 

At least she did have Ginny in this world. It was a comfort, even as Hermione immediately recognized that Ginny had grown up to be pointlessly, needlessly aggressive and loud. It was to compensate for being the youngest in a huge family. This Ginny had never experienced true hardship. She’d never found a way to prove to herself that she was tough. 

It was a pain in the arse. 

Hermione sat on the shitty stool at the shitty counter in Ginny’s shitty flat, watching Dean act just the perfect stony gentleman for Ginny, which obviously was a show meant not for Hermione or even Ginny herself but for Seamus. Seamus, for his part, watched Ginny’s boyfriend with eyes that burned. It was petty, and so very, very transparent to everyone except apparently Ginny. 

There wasn’t much to be done about it, though, not when Hermione could barely muster up emotions beyond a dim sense of annoyance. 

Seamus tried to put his arm around her, but his muscles were so tense that Hermione ducked away immediately, ignoring the look of vexation he kept trying to catch her eye with. She was his beard in this dimension, but she was under no obligation to continue the pretense if he was going to make her uncomfortable. 

“I’m heading out,” she said. 

Ginny frowned at her, but lost interest in her own consternation right away when Dean touched her on the back. “Get home safe,” she said, giggling.

Hermione yanked her coat on and Disapparated, since Ginny’s apartment didn’t have a fireplace. It was the little things which amazed her. Hardly anyone their age had a Floo. Why not, when they could just Apparate? Never mind that one needed a clear head and intense concentration for Apparition. Never mind needing a license, and being of age. That wasn’t a problem in this peacetime world. 

She shouldn’t be so irritated with her old friends. She should be happy that they’d never been through war. Harry’s parents were still alive! Ginny had never even heard of Tom Riddle, much less been possessed by him. No one even knew what a Horcrux was. They were so carefree, so... so innocent.

At least in this world she had her own house. Her parents had left it to her. They hadn’t gotten to enjoy a world without Voldemort for long, for apparently they’d died in a car crash in France her fifth year. Since then, she’d stayed with the Weasleys for the most part, and Ginny had expressed surprise that she would want to move into her childhood home. Peacetime-Hermione had been a far more romantic and sentimental girl, it seemed. 

Hermione set her purse down on the kitchen counter. A flick of her wrist sent a ball of light rising to the ceiling and then spreading out, illuminating every corner of the room. It saved loads on her electricity bill to just use magic. 

They would be expecting her at work in a few hours. The Ministry of Magic. She was a pencil-pusher in the Care and Regulation of Magical Creatures Department, hardly privy to anything of importance and worse than invisible to her coworkers. In a world without Voldemort, discrimination based on gender and blood status was still more than rampant. The longer she stayed here, the more she felt that perhaps that explosion of change was what the world needed. The loss of life was tragic, yes, and to be avoided if possible, but...

She picked up her purse and extinguished the light. There was enough time to visit the Hog’s Head.

An experienced Apparitioner, she slid onto a barstool in the same movement as her feet touched the ground. “A Firewhiskey, please,” she said, setting a Galleon on the countertop and pushing it forward. 

Aberforth Dumbledore swept up the coin and procured an entire bottle of the stuff. “Y’want change, Missy?” he rumbled.

“No,” Hermione said. “But I do want to talk to you.”

The old man glowered at her, clearly suspicious, before moving on. 

Hermione nursed her bottle over the next few hours, smiling as she felt curious stares on her back. She was a young girl, nineteen in this world— far too young to be spending her time in a shady pub during the wee hours of the morning. 

At last, though, Aberforth barked that it was time to get out, and Hermione drained the last of her bottle. 

“Make it quick, girl,” he said.

“It won’t be.” Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Invite me backstage. Neither of us will want this overheard.”

“Fine.”

Hermione followed him upstairs to his living quarters, a familiar place. She sank into an armchair and watched him pace. “I’ve been thinking,” she said after several interminable moments, “that things would be different now if Ariana hadn’t been killed.”

Aberforth stopped moving, turning to the figure in his favorite armchair. Hermione knew it was his favorite, too. “Obviously,” he spat. He didn’t ask how she knew about Ariana in the first place.

“So,” she continued, not at all put off by his scathing attitude, “I have a time turner.”

“You’d go to Azkaban,” he said.

“Only if I’m found out. I won’t be.”

“And if you are?”

“Then it was an accident. Magic is a volatile thing. No one really understands how it works, even if we do depend on it for even the smallest things.”

“You’re talking about going back to a war. You couldn’t handle that.”

“Hm,” Hermione said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man.”

“No?”

“I’m from another dimension. As awful as it was... In the grand scheme of things, that war was necessary.”

“What war?”

Hermione sighed. “It’s a very long story. Tom Riddle decided that he was above the laws of nature and became a Dark Lord, capitalizing on the racist views of the elite to launch himself into position as the most powerful wizard in the world. It didn’t work, in the end.”

“And you’d want this to happen again? Here?”

“No, of course not. I could hardly force Riddle to exist, now could I? But in saving Ariana, I gain you as an ally and allow your brother to continue down his own path with Grindelwald. With the two of them together, with a few safeguards, this world will get that push that it needs towards social reform.”

Aberforth, despite what were probably his best intentions, couldn’t hide how his eyes lit up at the thought that he could have his sister back. Hermione refrained from pointing it out. That would be in bad taste. 

“Look at it like this: it’s going to happen, one way or another. You’re just in the fortunate position to influence your own past.” 

“It’s not going to be as easy as you imply. You’re a muggleborn, Granger.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” Hermione chuckled. She could feel the flush on her face and neck, and the pleasant warmth in her stomach, soothing any anxiety she might have. “Why don’t you adopt me, then?”

“You  _ are _ drunk,” Aberforth said. 

“Don’t dismiss it out of hand. Think about it. Once the timeline splits and Ariana lives, Albus will still want his freedom. Who’s going to take care of you two if not me? How else will we describe my sudden, fortuitous arrival? I’m a relative.”

“Timeline split?”

Hermione sighed. She hadn’t meant to let that bit slip. “You ever studied time travel? Or even just thought about it for a while? What happens to the other option? It doesn’t disappear, it branches. And my presence will change more than just that, so it’s an infinite amount of changes away from this timeline.”

Aberforth glared, and looked so sad for just a moment that Hermione remembered just how old he was. “So you’re saying that my life won’t change at all.”

“Not exactly,” Hermione said. “Think of it like this— you’re not just here. You’re in a trillion places at once, you just can’t remember all of them. And you could give happiness to a billion of those. Not all of them, but a lot. A billion variants of you, exactly the same in every way except for some tiny choice that you or a stranger made, just as unhappy as you are now. You could make things better for them. They  _ are  _ you.”

He was quiet for a long time, and Hermione tried not to fidget too much. Intuition, which reached her even when she was drunk, told her that now she would let him reach his own conclusions. She was rewarded after entirely too long by a mumbled, “Fine. I’ll help.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Hermione said, sitting up. “Here, conjure up a bowl. I’ll get the knives.”

“Which one are you planning on using?”

“Which ritual? Standard should work. I want to be fully integrated, not just a ward or something like that. The Granger bit vanishes.” 

“Fine.”

.

She waved a sarcastic goodbye and cast the spell. The last thing she saw was Aberforth’s smug face before the light got too bright. 

.

When the light faded, Hermione rubbed at her eyes, trying to make the spots go away. She had a headache brewing, which was expected but unfortunate. 

“Wh-wh-where—? How?”

“Oh, blast,” Hermione said, putting her hand down. She was in the backyard, exactly where she’d left. On the lawn before her was a group of three boys, about twelve years old each. One sat sprawled on the ground, as if he’d just been knocked backward. They stared at her in horror and mounting anger.

A whimpering sound behind her made her turn, keeping an eye on the three in front. A girl of about five or six was on her knees, tears streaking her face. 

She’d miscalculated. Fine, she’d deal with it. Hermione raised her wand, not even watching the spells land on the boys. 

“Who are you?” The girl stayed where she was, trembling. Her eyes followed the boys, who’d crawled away through the hole in the hedge with somewhat dazed expressions. 

“I’m Hermione. A relative. Here, get up, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside.” She held out a hand and waited patiently while the girl considered her for several moments. 

“Thank you,” said the girl, and took her hand. 

“It’s quite all right, Ariana. Come on.”

Hermione’s educated guess was confirmed with a smile from the girl and a significant reduction in her hesitance. “Father is home now!” she said. 

The walk was short. The Dumbledore home was modest, very similar to the home of Lily and James Potter. It was Godric’s Hollow, after all. 

Wait. It wasn’t Godric’s Hollow. Aberforth had taken her somewhere else, hadn’t he?  

Ariana pressed her hand flat against the door for a second before turning the knob.

“Father!” Ariana called. “There’s a person here!”

Percival Dumbledore appeared in the doorway, and only then did Hermione realize that she was much shorter than she was used to. She closed her eyes, thanking automatically-adjusting robes. What was the cause? Her voice was higher than usual, too, now that she thought about it. 

“Welcome to our home, young lady,” Percival Dumbledore said, and his voice was so deep it rang in Hermione’s ears. She would have to do some fast thinking. 

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione dropped into a curtsey, lowering her eyes. “I wish I could say that I am here for a leisurely visit, but that isn’t the case. May I speak with you, sir?” Her voice, how could she not have realized? It was so different! How much had her age regressed? 

The tall man nodded gravely and sent Ariana away. He flicked his wand, and Hermione recognized the momentary static of soundproof wards. “Please, sit,” he said. 

Hermione followed his suggestion, seating herself primly on one couch. She waited until Percival had folded himself into an armchair, suppressing a grin. It was like bending a person-shaped straw. “I am more than a little bewildered, I confess,” Hermione began. “Ending up here was an accident, but I’m fortunate to be among family again.”

She took advantage of his momentary stunned silence to examine him. He was a gaunt, bearded man, with the same piercing blue eyes of his sons. He resembled Aberforth more than Albus, seeming to share an aura of displeasure. Where Aberforth’s was gruff, Percival’s was very nearly dangerous. 

“Explain, child,” he said.

“My name is Hermione Dumbledore. I am Aberforth’s granddaughter.” She waited, not wanting to overwhelm him. It gave her brain time to work out the changes in her story. She’d counted on only having to deal with teenagers at first, teenagers who would be happy to believe her for she’d be the answer to their hopes. A father, one who by all accounts was protective of his children to the point of having been imprisoned for it,  was an entirely different story. 

“You’ve come from the future?” he asked, looking more than a little skeptical. 

“Yes, sir,” Hermione said. “I was— my parents— Look, sir.” She held up the time turner, which looked very little like an original. She’d done work on it to make it sleeker, more efficient, and to remove many of the safeguards. “This was supposed to take me to my grandfather’s home if anything were to happen.”

“I see,” said Percival. “Go on.”

“There’s a group that formed in the past few years. They’ve become infamous for being willing to do anything for money, and Papa has a few enemies who have that kind of money. The group broke into our home while he was away. I don’t know what happened to Mama.” She scrubbed at her eyes, setting her jaw. “I figured that that counted as an emergency. I don’t know how I ended up moving through time.”

“Who were your parents?”

“You wouldn’t know them, sir. Oh! You mean their families. My father married a muggleborn.” He would surely accept that. She couldn’t claim a family that wouldn’t be backed up by a heritage test. Ordinarily she would be worried, but Percival had married a Muggleborn himself. 

“Is that so. Child, forgive me if I don’t take you at your word.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “It’s true!” she cried. “Test me if you want.”

“We don’t have the Heritage Potion on one of our shelves. It takes time to commission.”

“I have money,” Hermione said, pulling out her beaded purse. Her entire fortune lay within, not that she planned to mention that. 

“Money isn’t the issue,” Percival said, although it likely was. 

“Sir,” said Hermione. “I don’t know how to make you believe me. One thing I do know is that we’re family, and I’ve already changed things. Great Aunt Ariana was supposed to be attacked today. You’re supposed to be spending today avenging her and getting yourself thrown in Azkaban. Grandpa Abe said so. If changing the future is what’s worrying you, it’s too late for that.”

Even more than learning that his descendant had come back in time, that seemed to get through to him. “Excuse me?” he growled. 

“It tore the family apart. Great Aunt Ariana never went to Hogwarts because of it.” 

Percival took a deep breath. “I think I need to discuss this with my wife.”

.

She was eight years old. 

Aberforth had gotten the jump on her, that much was obvious. He’d had his own plans and she’d been too preoccupied to notice. She’d only really begun to suspect when he’d led her to Mould-on-the-Wold instead of Godric’s Hollow. He must have tampered with her time turner, too. 

She’d underestimated him. Or perhaps she just hadn’t cared? The more she thought about it the more she was convinced of it. 

After all, she could admit to herself that she hadn’t really cared about the fate of the Dumbledores. She was long past the idealism and righteousness of her younger self. Entertainment was the best currency, and the peacetime dimension was boring. She’d given herself a task out of boredom. It didn’t matter where she ended up as long as she could entertain herself. 

Eight, though. There must have been a purpose for that. Albus was nine, and Aberforth was seven. Had he meant her to be able to fit in as one of their siblings? He could’ve just  _ told  _ her about the change in plan instead of being underhanded and leaving her unprepared. There was no way he could’ve gotten the impression that she would’ve been too opposed. 

Whatever. What was done was done. It’s not as if she was going to jump forward again. 

If she was going to be their  _ sibling _ , though, they couldn’t remain in this tiny, tight-knit community. They would know, and ask questions, and she  _ really  _ didn’t feel like going around to every family to plant memories. What a pain! She convinced Percival and Kendra that moving would be for the best. Kendra was all for it, and Percival, smitten with his wife, could deny her nothing.

Kendra Dumbledore was a dear woman, motherly in every way that counted. Not quite a Molly Weasley, though, and willing to leave her children alone, which was a blessing. She’d accepted Hermione almost immediately, which was something not everyone would be good-hearted enough to do. Hermione would have been willing to curse her— willing, not eager— but it hadn’t been necessary. 

Besides, Kendra was a powerful witch in her own right. It would’ve been a challenge. 

It was Percival, however, who was the real challenge. He let her into his home permanently, after ordering a Heritage Potion and confirming her bloodline, but he didn’t stop treating her with suspicion. He didn’t really want her getting too close with his children, which was a source of tension between Kendra and him. He was too powerful and too wary of her for her to risk cursing him, not now when she had things to hide. 

The children were lovely, though. Brilliant kids. She couldn’t even bring herself to be annoyed with them. 

Hermione was a model child. Obviously. She held her tongue, didn’t antagonize anyone, and hid her wand. In the meantime, she worked on her wandless magic. 

Speaking of which, her magical core had gotten larger after the adoption. It was a pleasant bonus. She’d always been powerful, but more in the way that Kendra was. Above average, and by far, but remarkable because of how she  _ used _ it. She knew her magic, knew how it worked. She was efficient. It would be years before she could unleash herself on this dimension, and she  _ itched  _ to show the world what she was capable of, but she would be content in expanding herself in the way that children could. 

Of course, she made sure to prove to her new guardians that she was powerful, just not  _ how _ powerful. She kept herself stride for stride with Albus.

Two years strolled past with all the urgency of a witch bound for Azkaban. It dragged, spiting her with every day that should have been a week. Hermione spent much of her time away from home. Her guardians were fine with it, although Kendra expressed concern that they could never find her. There was a good reason for that. The Ministry didn’t know how to monitor Apparition, and hadn’t figured it out by the twenty-first century, either. No one would expect a child too young for Hogwarts to be able to Apparate, anyway. 

It amused her to be a girlchild, society’s treasure. She rarely disguised her age or her gender, though it would’ve been relatively easy to do either. 

When Albus turned eleven, he was shipped off to Hogwarts, and then Hermione was the eldest. 

“I want to go to Durmstrang,” she said. It was casual on purpose, during a meal, just to see if anyone would do a spit take. 

No one did. “Why is that?” asked Kendra, infuriatingly lady-like.

“Because no one will expect me to,” Hermione said. “And the library sounds impressive.”

“The Hogwarts library is renowned,” said Kendra.

Hermione sighed and lay her fork down, putting on the air of someone reluctantly confessing a secret. “Albus can have Hogwarts. He won’t thank me to steal attention from him. I want Durmstrang, because someday I’m going to be just as powerful as Albus.”

Percival was the one who allowed it, in the end. He wanted as much for  _ his _ children as possible, and Hermione wasn’t one of them. 

.

She took a Muggle ship to Norway. Kendra was tempted to go with her, but Hermione gently dissuaded her, and only Hermione’s history of extreme competence and the inconvenience of accompanying her could convince her. And so, Hermione stepped on board without her guardians and with only her beaded purse. 

Her presence was a novelty to most of the crew and passengers, and Hermione enjoyed the attention, to an extent. She made it clear that she would not tolerate being treated as an infant, and for the most part this was accepted. 

She arrived in the southernmost bulge of the country several friends richer than she’d been before. Instead of taking the train as her guardians had intended, Hermione Apparated to Storjuvtinden. Viktor had taken her there, once, saying that it was close to Durmstrang. Being now privy to the Secret, she noted that he hadn’t been exaggerating. The Institute was actually on Galdhøpiggen, which was within sight. 

Hermione Apparated in skips, moving ahead as far as she could see until she hit the wards, and from there she walked. 

Durmstrang was much smaller than Hogwarts, being only four stories. She’d felt the tingle of its magic since she’d touched down on Storjuvtinden, though, and she didn’t doubt that its reach extended much farther. 

“Pleased to meet you, Headmaster Wuldor. Thank you for accepting me.” She knelt before his chair in the Great Hall, taking in the ornate design and thinking that it resembled nothing so much as a throne.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Dumbledore. Rise, please.”

She got to her feet and lifted her head, looking him in the eye. He was an old man by Muggle standards, though not by Wizarding ones. Indeed, he only appeared to be about eighty years old. He wore thick, fur-lined robes. A pendant hung about his neck, the Durmstrang Crest.

“You’ve come early, child,” he remarked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

There was a moment of silence, where Wuldor glowered down at her with the eyes of a demon. Hermione, unperturbed, waited for him to grow bored of this game. 

At last, Wuldor said, “If you will not tell me how you’ve come here on your own, then I will not press the issue. Welcome to Durmstrang Institute.”

Hermione smiled and bowed.

.

She didn’t regret her whimsical decision to attend Durmstrang. How boring Hogwarts would be! They would have refused to give her merit because of her gender. Here... Here, she was powerful, and acknowledged. 

It wasn’t immediate, but real respect never was. She kept largely to herself, poring through the library and excelling quietly in her classes. It was still the beginning of the year, so there were few practical lessons. 

Hermione read the rules for student conduct, committing them to memory, marking every loophole. Duelling, she discovered, was allowed. Not encouraged, no, but allowed. 

Not all children were as cute as her foster siblings. There were a few boys in her year who took umbrage with her heritage and her demeanor. No big deal, honestly. They were eleven! It was adorable how little they knew.

Durmstrang, being far smaller than Hogwarts, was much more intimate. If one person knew something, everyone did. So the boys mouthed off about what they would do to teach Hermione a lesson, and even the older children watched the situation with some amount of interest. 

She couldn’t just disappoint them, right? 

Hermione wasn’t one for flashy shows, though. That would only make her a target, and then she’d really have to do something drastic to fix the situation, and that would be a hassle. So instead, she just made sure she was never hit.

Ever. 

It took a bit for it to be noticed, and probably would’ve taken longer if some second year hadn’t had the bright idea to try to jinx her in the hallway. 

Kendra was a Muggleborn, which no one liked. A Dumbledore marrying a Mudblood? Unheard of. Blasphemous. An outrage. The results of the union were sullied goods, like bastard children. Hermione, naturally, was the focus of a lot of boiling hatred. 

The spell came too slow, and not very accurate anyway. She didn’t have to jump to the side, just shift her weight. “Diffindo!” the boy— a Schwarz, probably— called, as if blind vehemence would help it hit the mark. 

Hermione didn’t even slow down. She just kept walking, calmly sidestepping jets of light. 

That incident certainly earned her some points. The whispers came back to her, that she was cool-headed and rational, that she’d probably trained with her family. 

Progress, it was progress. The longer she spent here the more she felt that it would be  _ so much fun _ to depose Grindelwald. Not as a Dark Lord, probably, since that would just bring out people like Albus and Harry. If she aspired to power, she would make them all love her, respect her,  _ beg _ her to lead them. She wanted what Albus could’ve had if he hadn’t been so weak of character. 

“Hey, Dumbledore.”

Hermione frowned and looked up. Gellert Grindelwald sank into a chair on the other side of the small study table, leaning on his elbow. 

“Can I help you, Mr Grindelwald?”

“Yeah. What are you reading, there?”

“It’s just blood wards. Basic stuff.” That wasn’t quite the truth. Durmstrang really did have a fascinating library, full of texts which would have been heavily restricted at Hogwarts, and she’d long past graduated from “basic” anything. The book focused primarily on blood wards hidden within historic locations and traditional blood wards of Pureblood families in Europe, hostile or otherwise. 

“Oh. Not bad.”

Hermione hummed, keeping the book open. Her eyes moved in a simulation of reading, but most of her attention was focused on Grindelwald. 

“Good show today. In Martial, I mean.”

“Thank you.” Hermione allowed a bit of a smile to curve her mouth. It hadn’t been anything impressive, just an especially eloquent answer to a question which had been meant to stump her, but even small things became large in the eyes of children. 

“Where did you learn about Inferi, anyway?” 

He looked so sweet and young, and that made the juxtaposition all the worse. Where Albus had wanted the Resurrection Stone so badly in order to see his dead sister and mother, Gellert Grindelwald had coveted it as a way to raise armies of the dead. Bigger armies, anyway. Hermione had read about the atrocities he’d committed, and that was in a world where he’d never even laid eyes on the Stone. 

But that was another dimension. Such awful images only served as a grim possibility here. 

“I read,” she said, shrugging. 

“Well, I do, too,” Grindelwald said, “And I’ve only ever found mentions.”

If Hermione had more faith in the capabilities of even brilliant twelve-year-olds, she would suspect a subtle question, but as it was the subtext was undoubtedly unintentional. “We’ve read different books, then,” she said. 

“What else do you know?”

Hermione sighed and propped herself up on her elbows, accepting that she would be having this conversation whether she liked it or not. Wasn’t having your nose pressed to a book a universal sign to leave a person alone? “You can’t be expecting a list, Mr Grindelwald.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “But I am curious. You must have access to so many resources!”

Had Hermione known how obnoxious being a child of an influential House would be, perhaps she would have reconsidered. “No more than most,” she said. “My siblings and I are hardly encouraged to know these things.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Grindelwald grinned. “Dumbledores are Light and all that. Why’d they let you come here, then? Everyone wants to know.”

Durmstrang’s reputation was that it produced Dark wizards. Besides, it was damned inconvenient to get to for anyone who didn’t live somewhat nearby. The other students wondered why the Dumbledores, with their reputation, would allow one of their daughters to come to such a place. 

“Because I asked,” Hermione said. 

Grindelwald, apparently receiving the telepathic warnings she was sending him, coughed. “You do well here,” he said at last. “Hogwarts wouldn’t know what to do with you.”

“Oh?” Hermione leaned forward, bringing her head closer to his. “What a compliment, Mr Grindelwald.” Something terribly old and mirthful shone from her eyes. It was an expression she was normally careful to keep from the surface, lest her foster father detect it and expel her from his home. 

He tried to hide it, but Grindelwald was afraid. Hermione could tell. HIs instincts were well-honed, and she saw the moment he realized that he was sitting across from someone dangerous. 

It would be rude to laugh at him, but she only just stopped herself. “No, Hogwarts wouldn’t suit me. I hope Durmstrang doesn’t disappoint.”

Grindelwald made his excuses and scampered off. Hermione let him go. 

She could have handled that better, but it was just so  _ funny _ . After all, she was much older and much scarier than she was likely to admit out loud. Once she’d discovered dimensional travel, she shifted around almost at a whim. Of course, it was a lengthy process which consumed a lot of power, so she didn’t like doing it too often. Once she transitioned to another dimension, she’d rather mold it to her wishes than immediately skip town. Even so, she’d made the journey several times and lived almost as many lifetimes.

It had the added bonus of keeping her perpetually young, since it was her consciousness traveling, not her body. She inhabited the body of whichever version of her existed in her destination. The original didn’t actually leave, but was shoved down and put to sleep. It would wake up when Hermione left and return to normal, assuming the ritual didn’t stress the body so much that it lost the capacity to maintain life. Unless there was someone else on hand to perform a separate ritual to keep the body alive, then the original would die. 

Hermione had lived many times over, and she wasn’t stopping anytime soon, not when she had limitless opportunities for entertainment.

With a smile, Hermione returned to her book. 

.

“Young Miss, welcome back.” Brown slumped down a bit when Hermione barely glanced over to acknowledge him. “I hear you’re going to Durmstrang now, isn’t that right?”

Hermione abandoned the display of precious stones and crossed over to the counter, leaning her forearms on the surface. “You’ve heard right. What of it?” She tilted her head and stared up at Brown with her best poker face. 

“I-i-i-it’s just a bit of a journey, isn’t it? Hogwarts is the finest around, why not go there?” Brown coughed.

“That depends on the kind of education you’re looking for,” Hermione said, prepared to turn away. She was really getting tired of answering this question. 

“I-if you say so,” he said. “But we don’t see you very often around here anymore.”

“I had hoped I wouldn’t need to micromanage,” Hermione said, tapping her nails against the countertop. “Things went just fine before I came around.”

Brown swiped a hand over his flushed face. “Of course, of course! I didn’t mean to imply that we rely on you or anything.”

Hermione hummed. “Sure. While we’re talking, Mr Brown, what have you heard from Knockturn Alley?”

“Quite a bit,” Brown said, sobering. “The child has made a Prophecy.”

“Have you recorded it?” Hermione asked, urgently. 

“Yes, of course,” Brown said, rummaging in his pocket. “I hadn’t thought you would come quite so soon, so—”

“Never mind that, just give it here.” Hermione snatched the parchment from his hand and unfolded it, smoothing it out against the counter. “‘ _ The Traveler comes to deliver us from the False Lover’s reign’.  _ That’s all?”

“That’s all. Do you know what it means?”

“I have some idea,” Hermione said, slowly. It was short and sweet, which was refreshing after the convoluted nonsense they’d dealt with in the original timeline. Her gut told her that the prophecy was about her, told her with a clenching certainty that almost made her sick. Would the False Lover be Grindelwald, then? If so, was it referring to the ordeal with Albus or just a general reference to his charisma? 

Or, perhaps, was it referencing something that hadn’t happened yet? Something that would happen in this dimension which hadn’t in the other? 

“Thank you, Mr Brown. I appreciate you bringing this to me. Anything else I should know?”

“Only the Longbottoms and I know about this. We weren’t sure whether you’d want it to get out.” 

Hermione shook her head. “That was the right call. It’s so vague that anyone could claim that it’s about anything, and those things get out of hand fast. Keep it between us.”

“We’ll do that. Also... Just out of curiosity... How often are you planning on visiting us?” 

“As often as I need to,” Hermione said, chuckling. “If that’s all, I’m going to go see Fatim.”

.

“Where have you been, Dumbledore?” 

Gellert Grindelwald leaned against the entrance to the girls’ dormitory, which was dishearteningly empty. Few girls were allowed by their families to enroll in school, and Muggleborns weren’t allowed in at all. Hermione was one of only half a dozen female students, which served to make her stand out, for better or for worse.

“I missed the part where that was any of your concern,” Hermione said, with no real bite to it.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Grindelwald flashed a smile at her, but Hermione had known Sirius Black and was immune to such things. 

“No,” said Hermione, “We aren’t. And if you consider one conversation to be your threshold for friendship then I can only feel sorry for you. Will you move out of the doorway, or do you intend to keep me hostage out here?”

Grindelwald shrugged but didn’t move. “We could be friends,” he said.

“That’s true,” said Hermione. “But how do you plan to make that happen?”

“My natural charm, a healthy dose of intellectual discussion, and perhaps my everlasting servitude.”

After a serious discussion with Fatim, her pet Seer, this sort of levity was more than welcome. Her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Have you gotten over your intimidation, then?”

He rubbed a hand through his hair. “If we’re being frank, no, not really. But having you on my side would be better than not, right?”

“It’s not quite so simple.” She considered for a moment, weighing her options. “I have low empathy, perhaps to the point of sociopathy. You’d do better to make yourself useful than to try to force emotional intimacy.”

“I already guessed that,” Grindelwald said. “I think I know what I’m getting into.”

Hermione snickered at that. “Sure,” she said. “What exactly do you imagine you’d be getting out of this? Hell, what would  _ I _ be getting out of this?”

“Well,” Grindelwald said, “I’d be gaining knowledge, I’m sure. You’ve got yourself handled, and that’s considering you’re in a completely different country and a boarding school, maintaining at least two translation charms at all times. I’ve done my research, and that should be incredibly difficult for a first year. If you can do that, and especially as casually as you do it, then you could probably do anything else you needed to do. Which  _ means _ , if I get on your side early, you could help  _ me _ do anything  _ I  _ need to do.”

“Ah,” Hermione said, raising her eyebrows. She hadn’t exactly been  _ hiding _ her translation charms, but she wasn’t advertising either. “So I’d be useful to you, but what can you do for me?”

“No one can rule on their own,” Grindelwald said, lines appearing on his forehead. His eyes tightened, and Hermione found no trace of humor in them. “If you’re not thinking about it now, you will be in a few years. And I really believe you could do it. You’ve got the brains, the looks, the bloodline.”

“You’re not wrong,” Hermione said, shrugging away tense shoulders, “But, Mr Grindelwald, I’m not the only one with ambitions. It would be foolish of me to allow someone who could and would usurp me so close.” Then again, historically, Grindelwald wasn’t averse to  _ sharing _ power. He’d genuinely loved Albus, probably, and they’d made plans to rule over the Muggles together. Hermione wasn’t in the habit of encouraging joint  _ anything _ , but perhaps she could make an exception. 

“I won’t lie, I’m hoping that you could help me gain power and influence, but if you really do have low empathy then you should have no problem cutting off the problem if it comes up. I won’t try to convince you that you have my loyalty or whatever, just that I trust you’re competent enough to prevent anyone from overthrowing you, even me. Not to mention I’m a bit terrified of you, but you already knew that.”

“Fine,” Hermione said. “I won’t promise friendship, but I’m... open... to it.”

Grindelwald relaxed visibly, a broad grin spreading across his face like sunrise. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll talk to you in the morning, yeah?”

“Yes, sure,” said Hermione. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm willing to expand this, if there's interest.


End file.
